I’m not too fond of busy work or the feeling that what I’m doing serves no purpose. You know, grinding, day in and day out, just a frizzy white-haired accountant punching a 9-key in a windowless basement with a stack of dusty to-dos that never reduces.
With my pile piling, I’ve been curious about what needs throwing out – in my physical and mental environment- and how best to set up things, so they’re working for me, not against me.
Now that this blog is flying steadily at 32,000 feet, I’m going to start a weekly book club, and for the first one, I’ve picked Irvin Yalom’s book, “The Gift of Therapy.”
This book used to sit on my bookshelf, and whenever inspiration hit, I’d grab it and randomly flip to a page and read. Dr. Yalom’s humanistic perspective is one-of-a-kind. You’ll see.
So, that’s that. It’s 11:49 pm on July 3rd. The Muckleshoot Indian Tribe had a fireworks show at Emerald Downs. On our way home from dinner at my Grandma and Aunt Heidi’s house, we pulled off on the side of the road and watched. A guy standing nearby in a heavy Russian accent shook his head afterward, “Thirteen years I come. Hour…hour and a half. On and on it goes. Never short like this.”
I was ok with short.
Night, night. We’ll start the book club tomorrow. Just bring yourself.